you're a star, silly girl
by with the monsters
Summary: -it's funny how diplomatic she can be if she really tries.- MollyLysander.


you're a star, silly girl_  
and i wonder if maybe, maybe i could be all you ever dreamed._

**A/N: **I feel I give Molly extremely bad press, so here I am attempting to get inside her head a little and maybe see her more sympathetically. I hope it works! It grew longer and longer and I couldn't get it to stop, so for that I apologise.

* * *

You f-a-l-l in slow-motion and it's funny only because it's not (and that's an oxymoron, but the world doesn't make sense anyway). You trip and stumble your way through life and maybe if you moved a little slower and you weren't trying to live your life so damn _fast _it would be a little easier.

You move from boy to boy and personality to personality because I suppose you get tired of being you. You don't see that there's a boy who watches your every move and wishes (on every single star) that maybe you'll stop being other people so you can be yourself because _you're _the one he loves, not the girl you're pretending to be.

You attack your hair with straightening spells every morning because it isn't sleek enough or groomed enough or _perfect _enough and you won't admit it but it kills you just a little bit. If you don't have perfect you don't have _anything_. (It's a stupid way to be but you haven't grown up enough to realise that yet.)

You dress like something out of _Gossip Girl _(you've had those clothing-alteration spells nailed since you were twelve so you're never short of new outfits) and your lashes are curled to flutter on demand and you swing your hips _just so_ and boys fall over themselves.

"Molly!" someone shouts, and you turn to find Lucy running towards you and you feel like maybe you want to cry because it just isn't _fair _– you get the grades but Lucy has the brains and you get the boys but Lucy has Lorcan and you want someone to love you like that.

"What?" you ask shortly when she catches up to you, motioning to your friends to go on ahead of you so you can talk to your dorky little twin sister (because she has _everything _and it just isn't _fair_).

"I was wondering if I could borrow that blue skirt off you?" she asks hopefully, stumbling over a rock in the pathway but catching herself before she face-plants into the dirt. "I have a date with Lorcan next Sunday and I was hoping – "

"You could never pull it off," you tell her, and bask in the spike of satisfaction that arrows through you. You're spiteful, but anything is better than being upset.

"Please, Moll?" she begs, ignoring your taunt, her big eyes round and innocent in her love-flushed face. "It'll go just perfectly with this shirt mum got me and – "

"Fine, whatever," you say, just to get her to shut up because you don't want to _hear _about what mum says – she writes to Lucy and not you because you push her away and she doesn't see that you need her. Dad writes and you love him for trying (you were always closer to him anyway) but his letters are full of practical questions like how your lessons are going or how your campaign for Head Girl is proceeding and sometimes you sneak down into the common room in the dead of night and cry as you burn the letters one by one.

There's something awfully satisfying about watching the spiky blue words crumple and dissolve into ash as the flames greedily lick the paper up.

She beams and hugs you and runs off down the hill to her perfect little boyfriend and you carry on along the pathway to Hogsmeade, kicking up puffs of dust and scowling.

"Weasley!" a boy's voice yells and you turn in a carefully-practised pivot on your killer heels, a pre-manufactured smile plastered across your face. It falls when you see the boy.

"Scamander," you reply grumpily, turning back around, infuriated that you've wasted a smile on _him._

"Why the long face? I do hope someone was mean to you," he says, and you roll your eyes and resist tripping him as he catches up to you and strides alongside you. Your heels are high but you still have nothing on his six-foot-three-inch monsterness and it makes you angry to have to look up to talk to him.

"Are you in the mood for a fight or did you just see me looking happy and feel the sudden urge to come kill my good cheer?" you ask, looking anywhere but him, your hazel eyes flicking around the countryside lazily.

"Actually," he says in an unusually diplomatic tone, "I was hoping I could ask you something."

You award him one surprised stare before pulling your layers of scowls back into place. "Can't you go bother your brother or your precious Lily?"

"Lorcan's with Lucy," he says, and you both roll your eyes in perfect time at the disgusting mush-fest that are your twin siblings, "and Lily's in one of her funny moods. I need a girl's advice and you're the only girl I ever talk to apart from Lily, so I figured you could help." He finishes his sentence with a big grin and you groan.

"Scamander, we don't _talk_. We _argue_."

He just _looks _at you with his big blue eyes and his best innocent-and-pleading expression and you fight down the surge of sympathy and dredge up irritation.

"Fine. What do you want?"

He positively beams, and suddenly grabs your hand to pull you behind a tree.

"Scamander," you say threateningly, brows drawn, fingers reaching towards your wand. "You're in my personal space."

He apologizes and pushes you away a little and then puts his head near yours.

"I am extremely sick of Lorcan spending all his time with Lucy," he tells you, and you raise your eyebrows.

"Ditto."

"Well, maybe you can help? I need a way to show him how bloody infuriating he's being."

You think hard for several moments (scheming is your speciality, not that you're boasting or anything) and then you snap your fingers.

"I've got it. You need a girlfriend, and I need a boyfriend. Then we each spend all our time with them so whenever they need us they can't find us because we're with our _perfect other half. _That should teach them."

He makes a face. "Well, that's going to be a lot easier for you than me, Weasley," he complains, and you roll your eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you have boys hanging on to your every word – and I don't talk to any girls except Lily, and she and Teddy are so _gah _that she'll never consent to fake-date me."

"But the boys who talk to me are _idiots,_" you whinge, determined that he won't win this stupid sympathy-fest. "I can't imagine spending any longer than one evening with any of them."

He looks at you suddenly in that way he has and you blanch.

"No," you say firmly. "There is no way."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later you are walking down the lane muttering to yourself incredulously and he is striding in the opposite direction with a promise extracted from you for a (fake) date next Saturday evening.

"Molly, where did you go?" one of your friends calls, and you sashay across the road in your heels to join the group at the window of Honeyduke's, picking absently at one of your long cuffs.

"I have a date with Scama- Lysander next Saturday," you blurt out, fiddling absently with a couple of stray red strands that have escaped your ponytail.

"You _what_?!"

There is a general outcry of astonishment all around and several boys that had been hanging around turn and walk off in disappointment. You fend off the queries with well-placed words and lead the rabble off to the Three Broomsticks for butterbeers.

You end up with shots somehow (you suspect Lorenzo Zambini, but you can't be sure) and soon you are all staggering back up to the castle, singing raucously in a huge group, laughing madly and leaning on each other. You see Lysander coming in the opposite direction and your friends catcall and wolf-whistle as he heads towards you.

"Lysaaaander, baby," you slur as he nears you, looking wary.

"Molly, what – "

"We have a date!" you inform him brightly, giggling, and he just stares at you in utter bewilderment. "We have a date," you continue, encouraged by the near hysterical laughter of your equally-drunk companions, "and I'm going to dress up soooo nice and we're going to … we're going to …"

He catches you neatly as you trail off and trip, watching the floor come up towards your face and laughing like this is hilarious, and he lifts you easily into his arms bridal-style and sets off back to the castle with angry mumbling.

"You're _tall_," you tell him, looping your arms around his neck and craning your head up at him.

"Really?" he says with an air of astonishment. You completely fail to catch the sarcasm.

"Yeah!" you assure him. "Like, really really _really _tall. Like the Hulk!"

He is probably about to ask what the Hulk is but that's exactly the point at which you pass out.

* * *

You wake up the next morning and your head explodes.

You groan and blink a couple of times and raise your hand to touch a surprisingly un-exploded forehead. There is blue all around you and for a moment you are convinced you have been dragged up into the sky by an errant angel – and then you realise that would be stupid and instead work out that you must be in Ravenclaw Tower.

"Thank God, you're finally awake," a voice says loudly and you curl in on yourself as his voice thunders through your brain like a herd of stampeding elephants.

"Don't talk so loud," you croak, your mouth feeling like a mouse has forced its way in and died, and squeeze your eyes shut against the noise all around you.

"Up," the loud person commands, pulling down the blue duvet and yanking you into an upright position, ignoring you as you shriek with pain and flail around madly.

"Smooth, Ly," someone else teases, and you crack one of your eyes open slightly to find yourself leaning heavily on Lysander, his body supporting yours, and his twin brother Lorcan smirking on the other side of the (freakishly neat) dormitory.

"Screw you, Scamander," you retort acidly, finding enough energy in your body for one spiteful remark.

"Oh, you wish, Weasley," he replies with a snigger. "Shame I belong to Lucy, isn't it?"

You are determinedly trying to get your brain to chug into gear faster when Lysander tugs you forward and you almost trip and fall. "Asshole," you mutter, blinking furiously against the assaulting lights and wishing your head would stop pounding.

"Ignore him," Lysander whispers in your ear, and you spare a moment from your abject self-pity to be grateful that he is finally talking quietly. "He can't believe we're in the same room without trying to kill each other."

"Oh," you reply stupidly, all your energy focused on getting down the stairs without falling head-over-heels. You are relieved that he thought to remove your shoes before he put you to bed, and then you remember –

"Scamander, why was I in your bed?"

He rolls his eyes as you clutch him even tighter to avoid pitching forward and tosses you over his shoulder in a fireman's lift, ignoring your cry of mixed pain and outrage.

"You passed out on me," he explains, and you try to recall the sequence of events that led up to that moment. "And I couldn't get you into Gryffindor Tower without the password so I had to bring you up here – then I couldn't get up the girls' staircase so my bed was the only alternative. Don't bother being grateful or anything though."

You sigh and prop your elbow up against his back, ignoring the odd looks you get as he marches across the common room with you dangling over his shoulder like an accessory, your red hair everywhere and your pale skin even whiter with the hangover.

"Thank you," you say eventually, quietly, and you can picture the smug grin that is stretching across his cheeks.

"No problem," he replies easily. "You're welcome to pass out on me any time."

"Don't hold your breath waiting for that to happen," you warn, and then hit him on the shoulder as he takes a corner too fast and jogs you, making your head throb especially hard.

"So how bad is it?" he asks and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

"How bad is what?"

"The hangover," he clarifies with a 'duh' tone.

"I've had hangovers before," you say, rubbing your forehead, "but this time even my hair hurts."

He laughs, a deep throaty sound that you can feel because you are pressed so close to him, and you let your elbow slip so you are simply dangling over his shoulder like a dishcloth.

"Please don't let any teachers see me like this," you beg, squeezing your eyes shut against his back in an attempt to dull the ache in your head.

"Right, because you're on that Head Girl campaign – and I'm guessing this would probably set that back just a little?"

You scowl before realising that it is a waste of effort and instead grumble out a "yes."

"Hey professor!" he says suddenly in a bright tone of voice that any teacher in their right mind would instantly be suspicious of – Lysander _never _addresses teachers brightly.

"You bastard," you mutter, and shut your eyes in preparation for all your hopes to come crashing down around your ears.

"Ah, hello, Mr Scamander," says a sternly familiar voice, and you groan as you recognise Professor McGonagall. _Just perfect._ "Which Miss Weasley do you have there?" she asks, and you have to repress the grin – in most schools, the redheads would be instantly recognisable. Not in this one.

"Molly," Lysander announces, bending down to set you more gently on your feet than you were expecting. You are opening your mouth to make an excuse when Lysander carries on talking. "I found her out by the lake – she wasn't feeling well and she went to get fresh air but she fainted just as I found her. I'm taking her to the hospital wing."

McGonagall looks between the two of you, her old face suspicious, but you lean against Lysander with your best 'pathetic' face and he puts a companionly arm around your shoulders.

"I was under the impression you two didn't get along?" she inquires, and you grin ruefully.

"We're making an effort, professor," you say as loudly as you can bear. "Seeing as how we'll probably end up being brother and sister-in-law in a couple of years."

Her face clears with understanding and she smiles just a little and stands aside to wave you past.

"I do hope you feel better soon, Miss Weasley," she calls after you, and you turn and smile the best you can. As soon as you round the corner you groan and almost collapse on Lysander.

"You asshole," you moan, feebly hitting his side, your head turned into his chest. He laughs and puts an arm around your waist to support you, half-carrying you along the corridor.

"Brother and sister-in-law, hmm?" he asks, and you frown against his jumper.

"Don't remind me," you warn him, your feet in the black tights padding almost noiselessly along the stone floor. "How much further is it?"

"One more flight of stairs," he reassures you, and begins tugging you up the staircase as you mutter something about wanting to die.

You arrive in the Hospital Wing and the new, young nurse heads off to get something for fainting while Lysander expertly pinches the hangover potion out of her desk and hands it over to you.

You drain it in two gulps and he quickly stows the empty bottle back in her desk before you delicately accept the potion she offers up when she returns.

"Thank you very much," you say gratefully, and are delighted to discover that you can stand without wanting to keel over and go to sleep and never wake up. "I feel much better," you assure her, and head over to the door to leave. Lysander follows you as you head back to Gryffindor Tower.

"I suppose I should thank you," you say as though it pains you to admit it, and he grins.

"No need. It was worth it for your reaction when McGonagall saw us," he replies with a smirk and you resist the urge to hex him and instead halt in front of the portrait that leads into the Gryffindor common room.

"Well, thank you," you say quietly, pushing your hair out of your face. "I'll look forward to our … date … on Saturday."

"So will I," he promises you with a mischievous sparkle in his eye, and then leans forward to press a quick kiss to your cheek before striding jauntily off down the corridor as you are left holding your cheek and wondering why on earth you have flushed so red.

* * *

The next Saturday afternoon you swallow your pride and go to find Lily. She is lying on her front on her bed, wearing a large sweater you recognise as Teddy's, and reading a hugely fat book that makes you feel queasy just looking at it.

"Lily?" you ask quietly, and she starts and looks up from her book, frowning as she realises that it's you.

"Molly," she says with considerable surprise and mistrust. "What do you want?"

You slide onto the bed next to her and offer up a box of chocolates.

"I was hoping I could exchange these for a little advice?"

She picks up the chocolates and studies the box for a moment, then grins and pushes her long hair behind her ears and sits cross-legged, smiling up at you.

"Sit," she says firmly, patting the duvet next to her. "I'd sell my soul in exchange for chocolate."

You beam in relief and sit next to her, kicking off your shoes before pulling your feet up and tucking them under you, thankful she appears to be in a relatively quiet mood.

"Well," you begin slowly, wondering how best to put this, "I sort of … have a date … with Lysander."

Her jaw drops and her green eyes are bright with shock as she just sits and _stares _at you.

"It's a fake date," you explain quickly, "we're trying to teach Lucy and Lorcan a lesson."

She clears her throat with obvious relief and tilts her head to the side, regarding you carefully. "Well, if it was just you looking for revenge, I wouldn't help because I like Lucy and you're kind of mean to her."

Lily has always been honest and you suppose you should value that, so you just half-smile in acknowledgement of the fact and wait for her to continue.

"But, seeing as it's Lysander, I'll help you. You may want to make notes on this," she warns, and you search around for a quill and some parchment before she rolls her eyes and thrusts some at you.

"Listen carefully," she orders, folding over her page in her book and laying it aside. "Lysander prefers it when you leave your hair curly because he thinks it's nicer natural."

You drop your quill in surprise.

"He has _preferences _about me?!"

Lily rolls her eyes. "Not that he expresses aloud, of course, but he's my best friend and I do know _some _things about him. I couldn't work out why some days he was quieter and better behaved than others until I realised that those were the days you hadn't had time to straighten your hair in the morning."

"Oh," you say quietly. "Are you sure?"

She picks up the quill and thrusts it back into your hand.

"Do you want my help or not?"

"Yes, I do," you reassure her, holding the quill obediently over the blank parchment. "Fire away."

"He likes talking about magical creatures – a good conversation starter is the Re'em that lives near his house, because he's worried that it's lonely – and about travelling because he's weird like that. So talk about holidays and shit. And don't just say you'd enjoy lounging on a beach because he thinks that is possibly the most shallow and boring thing you could possibly want to do on holiday."

Your quill flies across the parchment as she talks, and she absently eats a chocolate as she waits for you to finish.

"Got it," you say, and she grins.

"Okay – now, in terms of what you're going to wear, because I figure this is most important to you: don't go overly short or tight, as you seem to be fond of doing. Go for pretty, not _hot_. Boys actually prefer it."

You look at her askance and her eyes grow wide.

"No, I'm serious!" she tells you, her whole face very earnest. "Teddy was always complaining that Vic dressed like a slut before he broke up with her."

"You know," you say conversationally as you help yourself to one of her chocolates, "I bet you can't go a day without mentioning Teddy at least once every half hour."

She glares at you, then holds out her hand. "You're on. Ten galleons says I can't go a day without mentioning Teddy, and that you can't go a day without being mean to Lucy at least once."

You narrow your eyes at her and then slowly shake her hand, pulling out your wand to put a spell on both of you that will enable the other to know instantly if one has broken the deal.

"God, we're such Weasleys," you complain, and she laughs and pushes you off the bed.

"Now go, begin your preparations!" she orders, waving her hand in a very pompous manner and pulling her book towards her again, flipping it open to her page.

* * *

Five hours later and you are reasonably satisfied with your appearance, even if you do feel weird without perfectly straight hair. You have followed Lily's advice to the letter and done minimal make-up, and plaited your hair over your shoulder.

"God, I feel so stupidly nervous_,_" you complain to Alyssa, one of your roommates, as you examine the pretty grey wool dress you are wearing, the overlong cuffs hiding the scratch across the bottom of your hand from where the snargaluff tree attacked you yesterday. Your heels are still high because Lysander is so tall it won't make a difference, but your dress reaches almost to your knees.

"You look great, Moll," she assures you, crossing the room to rearrange your hair a little. "He'd have to be crazy not to like you."

"I don't need him to _like _me," you remind her, smoothing out your blusher, "I just need him to be bearable enough to spend the evening with."

"Yeah, whatever," Alyssa replies, seeing right through all your bullshit, as usual. You scowl at her in the mirror for a moment, envying her lovely blonde hair, and then turn and blow her a kiss.

"Later," you call to her, and snatch your jacket off the end of your bed before dashing downstairs as fast as you can in your shoes.

"Nice," Lily remarks from an armchair where she is sitting petting a blissful-looking owl. "You'll knock him dead."

"Why the compliments all of a sudden?" you ask her as you cross the room, and she shrugs and grins.

"I guess I feel like I have a vested interest in you or something," she replies, and you roll your eyes.

"You know, sometimes you act a whole lot more like twenty-four than fourteen."

"Thanks," she beams at you, and you smile back, suddenly exploding with nerves, and clamber out of the portrait hole to find Lysander there waiting for you, looking heart-breakingly handsome in a dark shirt and jeans.

"Hey," he says easily, reaching down to kiss your cheek. "Excited for our 'date'?"

You smile and hook your arm into his casually, getting better every second at hiding the butterflies that are playing dodgeball in your stomach.

"Of course," you reply as you make your way out of the castle and down the road towards Hogsmeade and Alcatraz, the new restaurant that claims to serve all sorts of weird and wonderful wizarding dishes.

"So …" you say after several moments of uncomfortable silence, "How's that Re'em?"

He beams as though you have told him everything in Honeyduke's is free and starts talking so excitedly that you find yourself grinning and listening quite without meaning to.

* * *

You are amazed by the end of the evening that you have only argued three times – once over you trying to steal his chips, once about him stealing your dessert and once about who's paying. As usual, you blow them out of proportion, but then remember you are supposed to be having fun and swallow your pride and smile and strike up a new conversation.

He makes an effort too, for which you are grateful, and you exit the restaurant at the end of the evening holding hands and talking and laughing.

You meet Lucy and Lorcan re-entering the castle and they both just stop and stare at you in complete and utter amazement.

"Nice night, isn't it?" Lysander says pleasantly, and you bite back a laugh.

"Ly and I were just admiring the stars," you say, stumbling slightly over the nickname but grinning anyway – they're just too funny for words, standing there and staring at the two of you as though you've grown extra heads or something.

"Well, goodnight," Lysander tells them eventually when it becomes clear that they're just going to stand there in shock.

"Whoa, wait," Lorcan calls, and you share a grin before turning back. You consciously seek out Lysander's hand and feel his strong fingers twine with yours, and smile brightly at Lorcan.

"Yes?"

"How long has this … whatever … been going on?" he asks dubiously, his eyes narrowed, and you smile your best flirty smile up at Lysander and then look back at Lorcan.

"This is our first date," you inform him, and next to you Lysander squeezes your hand.

"And it certainly won't be our last," he promises, and then you both make a swift exit, heading quickly up to Gryffindor Tower, leaving Lucy and Lorcan staring after you with jaws hanging open.

"I actually had fun tonight," you tell Lysander when you halt outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, smiling up at him, still feeling his big hand wrapped around yours.

"Me too," he says, and you frown.

"Really? I thought I was boring you."

"You're different," he says gently, smiling softly down at you. "I could never be bored with you."

You flush like a love-struck ten-year-old and he grins and kisses the back of your hand.

"Next Saturday?" he asks, and you shake your head with a mischievous glint in your eye.

"Wednesday night, the astronomy tower," you say, eyebrows raised when he attempts to interrupt, "Lucy and Lorcan always head up there in the middle of the night. We'll get there first and surprise them."

He beams at you. "You're diabolical," he tells you with a hint of awe in his voice, and you shrug.

"Well, what can I say?"

He beams and unexpectedly pulls you into a hug.

"Y'know," he says guilelessly into your hair, "you're not nearly the infuriating Gryffindor prefect I had you down as."

You smile into his broad shoulder and press your lips briefly against his neck. "And you're not nearly the dim-witted Ravenclaw clown I had _you_ down as."

"Well, here's to second impressions," he says, conjuring two glasses of champagne out of mid-air and handing one over, clinking them together. "Goodnight."

He leaves you with a glass of champagne clutched in one hand and a burning spot on the other where he kissed you, and that ten-year-old smile is back as you turn and climb back through the portrait hole.

* * *

Next Wednesday you are up on the Astronomy Tower, scowling furiously at him as he places wards to keep out the cold wind around the top of the tower.

"What?" he asks in confusion as he finally seats himself on the rug next to you, pulling out a strawberry from the bowl and giving you a confused look. You pout and turn your head away, your long hair swishing over your shoulder with you.

"Aw, come on, Weasley," he protests. "You can't still be mad about Arithmancy, can you?"

You turn to glare at him, poking him hard in the chest with your index finger, infuriated that you have to look up at him. "You got me my first detention in _four years_," you near-shout at him. "You and your stupid note-passing," you complain bitterly, kneeling up to get right in his face, your nose inches from his.

"If you ever, _ever _get me in trouble like that again I'll –_ mmph_!"

He cuts you off very effectively by clamping a hand over your mouth.

"Listen," he whispers, and sure enough you hear footsteps accompanied by familiar voices nearing the top of the stairs. For want of anything else to do you pull his hand away from your mouth and throw yourself at him, clamping your lips down on to his and wrapping your arms firmly around his neck.

He makes an "oomph" noise of surprise as you bowl him over, but then his hands slide up around your waist to pin you to him as he lies on his back, mumbling something against your mouth that you don't catch.

"Oh my _God_," Lucy whispers as she and Lorcan reach the top of the stairs, and you carry on kissing Lysander as though you don't even realise that they're here. You try to pretend that there aren't fireworks fizzing and exploding all through your body, but it isn't really working. Your socked toes curl in delight and you press yourself more firmly against him as though you can sink through him to rest your very bones against his.

"Back away slowly," you hear Lorcan mutter, and then the sound of their retreating footsteps. With a supreme effort of will you drag yourself apart from Lysander, wiping your mouth and hurrying to the top of the stairs to watch them leave.

You fix a carefully neutral expression onto your face before you turn around. He's sitting there, propped up on one arm, looking thoroughly dishevelled, and he's just _looking _at you.

"That was _awesome_!" you crow, running back over and throwing yourself down next to him. "We sure fooled them," you say happily, holding up your hand for a high-five. You are a perfect pretender to detachment, your mind clamped down on all haywire nerves and your rebellious heart, which is thumping out an elated "I love you, I love you" while your head shouts "I can't, I can't."

He returns the high-five, looking dazed, and you grin fakely as you pull your shoes back on, reaching for the picnic basket the house elves packed for you earlier.

"You're going?" he asks suddenly, breaking out from his reverie, and you roll your eyes.

"We've accomplished our mission," you say (read: I will do something stupid like spontaneously jump you if I don't leave now) and turn. His hand flies up to hold onto yours.

"They might come back," he points out, his eyes finally clearing fully as you try to pull away.

"They won't," you reassure him, attempting to disentangle yourself. He lets you go eventually, and you smile down at him and offer your hand back to him to pull himself up with.

He accepts your help and pulls himself to his feet, towering over you even more than usual without your heels.

"Well," you say blankly, holding out your hand as though he should shake it or something, "thank you for a lovely evening."

He looks down at your hand and then back at your face and raises a lazy eyebrow before suddenly pulling you into a hug and squishing you against him. Your face is smooshed into his broad chest and you don't even bother complaining, just wrap your arms around his back and smile into his sweater.

"Scamander," you say to him with a nod when he finally releases you.

"Weasley," he replies, also nodding, and you shoot a grin over your shoulder as you turn and descend the stairs slowly, your head spinning.

* * *

Lucy pounces the next day, cornering you after you have spent the whole of the Arithmancy lesson staring at the back of Lysander's head and wondering what the bloody hell is wrong with you.

"Okay, spill," she hisses, backing you into a corner. "_How_?!"

"How what?" you ask blithely, pushing past her. "How did I get all the good-looking genes? Or how did – "

"How did you and _Lysander _happen?" she clarifies before you can really get into your insulting streak, and you flip your hair expertly and smile a dreamy smile that doesn't require much pretending.

"I don't know," you sigh blissfully, staring off into middle distance and inwardly congratulating yourself on your mad acting skills. "It just sort of … happened."

"_How_?" she repeats, and you give her a black look.

"Are you trying to imply that we're not a good couple?"

"Well … it's _you _and it's _Lysander_. It's just … bizarre. Two weeks ago you couldn't even be in the same room as each other without starting a fight."

"People change," you inform her sniffily, channelling your dad perfectly. "Maybe if you grew up a little you'd realise that too."

"I'm not the one who needs to grow up," she mutters angrily, and you scowl furiously.

"I'm not the immature one here, _Lucy_. Who still gets nightmares, hmm?" you ask patronisingly, your nose in the air. She gasps and glares at you, ignoring the amused looks you are both getting from passers-by who are used to seeing the two of you fighting.

"Everyone gets nightmares," she says quietly. "Even you, Miss Princess. And everyone sees right through you – Lysander included. You think you can toss your hair and bat your eyelashes and everyone will do anything you want."

You take a step back at the vehemence in her tone, surprised because, well, it's _Lucy _and she usually backs down in your arguments.

"But you're not anything, really," she continues determinedly, staring you down as you try to pretend that her words don't mean anything to you. "You think you're the world, but even mum and dad get tired of you. They think you're such a drama queen. _Everyone _thinks you're a drama queen. You make everything up into something huge when it's completely insignificant and no-one _cares _and you've persuaded yourself they do when really … you're nothing. Nobody cares."

She says the last with a calculated sort of rage and spitefulness. You can feel the tears rising, hot and heavy, but you hold them back fiercely.

"Look who's suddenly grown a backbone," you say quietly, icily, and then you whirl and stride away on your high heels, ignoring the looks you get from other students, head held high and chin in the air because you are _something_, you _know _you are.

You abandon your books near the Room of Requirement, leaving them scattered across the floor, the papers spilling out and rising in a flurry as the tears escape, bursting over your cheeks like rain.

"I need a place nobody will find me!" you shriek at the wall, alone in the corridor, and run back and forth in front of it until the door appears. You wrench it open and throw yourself through, slamming it behind you and dissolving into sobs as you trip over a shag-pile rug and fall face-down into the soft whiteness.

You revel in the blankness as the tears consume you, Lucy's words echoing around your brain.

You are not _nothing_. And people do care. So your mother and father are detached but that's because it's the way they _are _and they write to Lucy because she needs their help, not because they find her company easier to bear and they love her more for it.

They leave you alone (ignore you) because they know you will do just fine by yourself.

So why does it hurt to just be by yourself now?

You curl up into a ball and let the tears run down over your white cheeks, feeling pathetic in your self-pity but you just can't bring yourself to care.

"Nobody can come in," the door announces suddenly, and you gasp and half sit up, wondering what will happen next.

"I _am _nobody," someone protests angrily from the other side, and you gasp as it traitorously swings open, revealing a tall, dishevelled blonde boy who rushes through the doorway and shuts it behind himself, dropping to his knees and pulling you into his arms quickly, wiping your tears away as you turn your head into his chest.

"Why are you here?" you ask quietly, your breath catching embarrassingly in the middle of the sentence. "I don't mean anything to anybody. I'm nothing."

"You're a star, silly girl," he says firmly, his face buried in your hair. "And you are everything."

He kisses you then, silencing your protests, and you smile very slowly up at him as he looks down at you, his thumb sliding against your cheek delicately.

"How about a real date next Friday?" he suggests gently, helping you sit up. You lean against him and tuck your head into the juncture of his neck and shoulder and breathe him in deeply.

"No plots?" you ask. "No ulterior motive or vengeful thinking?"

"Just you and me," he promises. "And some food, of course."

"Always the food," you murmur. "I can foresee that we're going to fall out over this."

"We won't be perfect," he says with a laugh, his arms wrapping around you as he grins, "but we'll be _real_. 'Sides, perfect's _boring_."

"You're such a sap," you complain, completely failing at masking your smile. He beams and kisses you again.

"Well you're controlling," he announces, "but you don't see me complaining."

"Actually," you say slowly, "I do. _All _the time."

He grins ruefully and wipes away the last traces of your tears, pulling you to your feet and then folding you into his arms again.

"How about we try to start from the beginning?" he suggests gently, and you can feel the rumble of his voice from where your head is pressed against his chest. "Before the fighting and the arguing and the plotting."

"Okay," you agree slowly, taking a step back and holding out your hand. "I'm Molly Weasley. Nice to meet you."

"I'm Lysander Scamander," he says with a grin, and then completely ruins the act by bending down to kiss you hungrily. "Nice to meet you," he breathes against your mouth, and you roll your eyes.

"Do you often greet strangers by jumping them?" you inquire when you part for breath, and he smirks and winks at you.

"Oh yeah," he assures you blithely. "But only the girls, don't worry."

"Well it would be awesome if you could stop doing that," you suggest with a laugh, reaching down to twine your fingers into his, "because people might start getting scared."

"Whatever," he replies, and you fight down the familiar surge of annoyance that arises every time he ignores you. "Ready to face the world again?" he asks gently, and you swallow and nod and plaster a big smile across your cheeks.

"I _am _something," you remind yourself, and he grins as he holds the door open for you.

"You're everything," he says quietly from behind you, "And I don't care that saying that makes me a soppy loser."

You smile lazily up at him, the sway back in your hips as you approach your scattered books and papers.

"Now be a gentleman and spell these into a nice pile for me?" you ask, batting your eyelashes, and he rolls his eyes and pulls out his wand.

"You are a terrible manipulator," he tells you as he charms the strewn sheets into a pile. "You need to learn to stop playing around with boys' hearts."

"I'm learning," you promise him, bending to pick the pile up. "I really am."

"I don't doubt it," he reassures you, leaning in for one final kiss before you rejoin the world.

* * *

**A/N: **Please don't favourite without reviewing, thank you.


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